


FBI Ball

by campylobacter



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Crack, F/F, F/M, Humor, M/M, Parody
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-02-28
Updated: 2002-02-28
Packaged: 2017-10-09 08:51:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/85317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/campylobacter/pseuds/campylobacter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doggett asks Scully to the FBI Ball, where Mulder comes out of hiding. Timeline: "TrustNo1" I mad-libbed someone's ScullySue ballfic for the sake of cheap parody.</p>
            </blockquote>





	FBI Ball

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [They Only Danced Once](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/661) by Mel X Lady. 



"Yo, Agent Scully!" a voice echoed in the parking garage at 5:15 on a Friday afternoon. Scully turned to see Doggett running toward her.

"What's wrong?" she asked, noting that his faced was flushed with exertion -- an indication of a sustained, pell-mell ascent from the bowels of the J. Edgar Hoover building. Or was it Quantico? Damn, she could barely keep track anymore.

"Nuttin's wrong," he panted. "You won't believe this, but I just scored two tickets to that FBI Ball."

"How? Attendance is limited to six hundred."

"Well, see, Kersh needed a backrub and I--"

Scully quickly held up her hand. "Stop. Sorry I asked."

"So I, uh, need a date. You comin'?"

She hesitated, then decided that dumping off William in the toy department of the all-night Wal-Mart would buy her several hours of leisure time. "Sure. What the heck. What time are you picking me up?"

"Eight's good for me. I gotta rent a tux -- and fast. Where'd I park my Silverado?" He spun around, scanning the parking structure.

Watching him stalk and point like a bird dog, she frowned as she realized she, too, needed a dress -- and fast.

. . .

Scully ascended the escalator like a marmoreal goddess returning to Mount Olympus. Standing triumphanty on the second floor, she scanned the Nieman Marcus Evening Couture Department and allowed herself to gloat. Most GS-13s couldn't even afford to window shop here.

A predatory sales woman in a well-cared-for Armani circled her.

"Good evening. May I assist you?" she asked blandly, eyeing Scully's no-name heels.

"I need an evening frock for tonight. Full-length, lots of skin."

"If you need it hemmed, there may not be enough time," she said, obliquely referring to Scully's height. "But I'll see what I can do."

Scully followed the sales woman toward a rack in a corner. The woman pulled out a long-sleeved, backless dress of black jersey whose tag read "Eduardo Lucero".

Looking at how far down the opening in the back dipped, Scully realized how much skin it would show, let alone her ouroborus tattoo. She might have to buy special thong underwear to carry it off.

"Nah. Anything in Dior?"

"Not in your size. How about Lacroix?" The sales woman glided to another section of the store and returned with a bustier ballgown of six clashing colors, including orange and fuchsia.

"That's it. That's the dress," Scully declared.

"Absolutely fabulous, darling. I'll hang it in this dressing room for you."

Scully surveyed herself in the dressing room mirror. The skirt needed hemming, and the bustier was so garish, no one would notice that she needed to retouch her roots. The sales woman advised that a temporary hem be secured with masking tape, but the seamstress looked nauseous at the suggestion.

"I will make good hem, but is Rush Job," the seamstress sighed in a Russian accent, alluding to a last-minute surcharge that would double the alterations fee.

"How fast can you get it done, Olga?" prodded the sales woman.

"Maybe twenty, thirty minutes. I can fix."

What the hell? thought Scully. "Work your magic."

The sales woman smiled triumphantly at clinching the sale. "If anyone can do it, Olga Krychek can. She's worked here for twenty-two years."

Krycek? thought Scully. "Did you have a one-armed son named Alex?" Scully asked Krychek.

"No, but I have one-eye dog Sasha. He is Shih Tzu."

Gesundheit, thought Scully.

. . .

At 7:36 PM, Scully turned on her shower the instant before the phone rang.

"Scully."

"Hi Dana, it's Monica."

"What's up?"

"I can't babysit next weekend. I'm having unexpected company."

"Thanks for letting me know. I gotta run, though," Scully explained, listening to the water warm up in the shower. "Agent Doggett is picking me up in less than half an hour for the Ball."

There was dead silence on the other end of the line.

"Reyes?"

"How in the hell did John get an invite? I let Brad Follmer Greek me, and all I got was a hemmorhoid."

. . .

"Damn, Agent Scully, you look, uh, great," Doggett commented as he eyed a dripping wet Scully wrapped in a white bath towel.

"Come in, John. Make yourself at home. I'll be fifteen minutes, yet."

"Well, don't rush on account o' me. Lemme know if I can help ya." Doggett sat on the couch, careful not to sit on the tails of his powder blue tuxedo. He turned on her TV and was soon immersed in a sleazy pay-per-view movie.

. . .

"My johnson's glued to my underpants, Agent Scully. If you'll excuse me," said Doggett, heading for the restroom.

Scully nodded, then gazed around the Grand Ballroom of the Monarch Hotel and checked off the notables: US Vice President Dick Cheney, FBI Director Robert Mueller, former Attorney General Janet Reno, Deputy Director Alvin Kersh, Assistant Director Brad Follmer...

...and Walter Skinner.

"Agent Scully, you look like a Bourbon Street fireplug," said Skinner.

"And you look like a penguin's dildo -- sir," she added quickly.

"Would you care to dance?" Skinner asked, offering his arm.

"Absolutely. I adore Britney Spears," she replied as she whirled onto the dance floor with him.

Skinner ground his pelvis into hers and clutched her ass with both hands.

"Mm baby baby," crooned Britney.

"I'm so glad they didn't hire a DJ," Scully whispered into his burly neck. She remembered the last time she was in Skinner's arms, and how her strap-on anal probe had come unfastened.

"You know, we could be in the men's bathroom instead of this dance floor. There's this hot, young attendant who offers excellent--"

"Sir, may I take a raincheck? My ben-wa balls--."

"Say no more. Let's enjoy the dance."

They danced for three more songs until Britney Spears began a cover by the Spice Girls. Skinner's eyes grew misty and he abruptly left for the open bar. Just as Scully moved to follow him, she heard a   
strange falsetto voice behind her.

"Dearest Dana."

She turned, wondering who in the hell would call her *that*.

"Mulder?" she whispered, confused to see a tall, squared-shouldered woman -- with unmistakeable pouty lips -- dressed in a lime-green sequinned dress and long, curly brown hair.

"Tonight I'm Denise, Senator Daschle's mistress."

She supressed her shock and extended her hand. "I'm so glad to see you again, um, Denise."

"Me too, dearest Dana," said Mulder, clasping Scully's hand in his gloved ones and holding it against his rather unbelievable bosom. "There's a lot of catching up for us to do. How's your little one?"

"Cutting teeth. He's growing so fast. And I miss his father so --" Scully faltered, fazed by Mulder's green eye shadow and squeaky voice.

"He does, too. Still breastfeeding, or bottle-feeding now?"

"I pump my--" she began, then angrily interrupted herself. "You know, if you had stayed... oh god, if you had done so many other things... if we could have just left this all behind..." Tears burned her eyes and threatened to dampen her face, decolletage, and cheap gold cross necklace.

Mulder cleared his throat to maintain a high pitch in his voice. "Shall we go to the powder room?"

Before she could answer, Scully felt someone tap her shoulder.

"Monica!" she cried, startled to see Reyes wearing a tuxedo.

"Dana, may I have the honor of this dance?" Reyes asked, bowing dramatically.

"Absolutely," Scully replied. "Excuse me, DENISE." She extricated her hand from Mulder's grasp, walked into Reyes's arms, and began to dance.

"Who was that ugly woman?" murmured Reyes.

"Someone that I used to know," Scully replied, trembling and repressing a long, hard cry.

"Dana? Are you OK? Should I get you a mineral water? A decaf latte? A high-protein smoothie?"

"Just hold me, Monica."

Monica held her, being careful not to catch her cufflinks in Scully's updo. They swayed to the gentle strains of the song. "Slam your body down, and wind it all around. Slam your body down, and wind it all around," Britney sang, imitating the cockney accent of Baby Spice.

"I've never told you this, Dana, but since I've stopped being jealous of you, you've become my role model."

"I what?" Scully whispered.

"I worship you. I may not have the credibility of your empiricism, or the incisive cognition in Mulder's leaps of intuition, but I do know truth. And one truth is that you're the most amazing woman to walk this planet."

"I need to powder my nose," whimpered Scully.

"I'll lead the way. But I can't go in, because I'm supposed to be the bathroom attendant for the Men's Room."

"I was wondering how you got in, and the reason for the tux," mused Scully. Her eyes shifted from Reyes to something across the room. "Oh no."

Reyes turned to see Doggett's powder blue coattails walking out of the ballroom with a substantial expanse of lime green sequins.

"Holy guacamole," Reyes said. "I didn't know John liked brunettes."

"That's no brunette; that's Mulder." Scully stalked after the retreating figures. Reyes followed.

In the hallway, the four agents confronted each other in front of a bust of J. Edgar Hoover.

"After four months, how dare you show your face in an outfit like that, Agent Mulder," Reyes hissed. "Cross-dressing is disgusting and contradicts the sacred tenets of the FBI." She straightened her bowtie self-righteously, and gazed adoringly at Hoover's visage.

"So true, Monica," agreed Mulder in his falsetto. "Scully, I can explain everything."

"No, let me explain something, Mulder. I don't want you to come out of hiding until you realize that we've been mistaken about Alex Krycek."

"What about him?" asked Doggett impatiently, trying to disguise his disappointment that he couldn't be alone with "Denise".

"We've been spelling his name wrong. It's Krychek with a silent 'H'. K-r-y-c-H-e-k. Lots of people spell it wrong."

"Krychek, Krycek, potay-to, po-tah-to. What difference does an allophone make?" asked Reyes.

"It means that the man whom Skinner shot between the eyes was not Krychek, but a clone called Krycek. Hence, the real Alex is still alive."

"I'll be hand-fucked," exclaimed Doggett.

"Now you know who I've been shacking up with for the past four months. What finally clued you in?" asked Mulder, adjusting his bra.

Scully pulled the alterations slip from her bustier and pointed to the seamstress's signature.

"Olga Krychek," read Mulder. "And?"

"And 'she' has an aversion to masking tape, and a Shih Tzu named Sasha. Sasha is the Russian diminutive of Alexander."

"And?"

"And 'she's' right-handed. Exclusively so."

"And?" The 'and' came from Walter Skinner, who had quietly approached them.

"And 'she' had a five o'clock shadow and something that looks like a Gameboy which 'she' claims controls nanocytes."

Skinner blanched. "And?"

"And the woman who sold me this dress was Marita Covarrubias."

"Nancy Drew strikes again," purred a voice at the end of the hall. Everyone turned to see Covarrubias, resplendent in a shockingly sheer, spaghetti-strapped gown of shimmering crystal beads, slink toward them like an unspayed cat. On her arm (her left arm) was Alex Krychek, without a wig, dressed in an custom-tailored Italian tuxedo.

"I've requested a special number to celebrate this reunion," Krychek announced with a stiff sweep of his free arm.

From within the ballroom, strains of an Eminem song rang out in the tandem voices of Britney Spears and Alvin Kersh: "So you can suck my dick if you don't like my shit. Cuz I was high when I wrote this, so suck my dick..."

"Let's get rowdy!" whooped Doggett, leading the way into the ballroom where the agents and double agents and triple agents line-danced like drunken bureaucrats all night long.

**Author's Note:**

> (For those of you unfamiliar with the extra-canonical inside jokes):
> 
> \- Gillian Anderson wore an Eduardo Lucero gown to the 2001 Academy Awards. The gown was built for a standard-length torso, and it dipped WAY down the back, so short-torso'ed Gillian wore a highly visible, cute, black thong to avoid revealing her crack. The press had a field day revealing her thong.
> 
> \- In the 1990 TV show "Twin Peaks", David Duchovny played Denise, a cross-dressing FBI agent.
> 
> \- Former FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover's private fetish was to dress in women's clothing.


End file.
